


Good Cry, A

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:12:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story: A fill-in-the-blanks AU-story for the battle at Helm’s Deep (movieverse). What if not everything went as it should have done? What if some did not make it? What if Aragorn would not be able to fulfil his destiny? What if -?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Cry, A

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

A good cry  
By Aragornwriter  
© 2004-04-06

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to Tolkien but I love to write about them.

Edited by Morwen, with my gratitude!

Rating : G

Story: A fill-in-the-blanks AU-story for the battle at Helm’s Deep (movieverse). What if not everything went as it should have done? What if some did not make it? What if Aragorn would not be able to fulfil his destiny? What if -?

Note from the author: This story implies Character Death but those who know me, also know that I would never – ever – kill them off. Well, not really. Or maybe I would. Just keep on reading to find out.

 

A good cry

The night’s creepy silence was replaced by the shouting of thousands and thousands of Orcs as they prepared for battle. They were here to rid Middle-Earth of every Man, Woman and Child that existed in Edoras, of every human who had come here to fight for his life or to take shelter deep inside Helm Hammerhand’s Deep. They were here to kill.  
That was their aim.

And what better way to win when there thousands of them against only a handful of Man and Elves?

And soon enough - as the battle between Elves, Men and Orcs commenced – the humans they came for, were dying. But so were Orcs. Hundreds of them. Thousand perhaps. Yet it seemed to Aragorn as if there were constantly still thousands left, as if every dead Orc was replaced by ten others.

It was as the people of Rohan and the three hunters that came to aid them, had feared beforehand: that which had come for them – the Evil spread so deeply over Middle-Earth by Sauron – was stronger than anything they had ever seen. The Orcs had multiplied, tripled almost in presence since the return of the power of the One Ring. And they just kept on coming. It was the foreboding of the darkness that would veil the Earth should Sauron win. It only made Men more defiant.

Hours later, after the wall had been breached and Aragorn still fought off the numbing feel inside his head from the fall off it while slaughtering Orc after Orc after Orc, it almost seemed as if there would never come an end to this night of dread and disaster. But at least his friends were alive and relatively well, even if Legolas bled from a cut to his arm and Gimli constantly grunted in sheer physical pain every time he lifted his deadly axe.

Perhaps Aragorn should have taken a better look at himself, for it was he that bled the most and received cut after cut as he fought hard and literally threw himself into battle. Yet he could not care less. This was the night of battle, the ultimate start of the War of the Ring. A night that would predict the future of Middle-Earth and set the basis of more fights to come.

Afterwards, neither Man or Elf could tell how it had started to go wrong. It was almost as if the Orcs – still fresh and still eager to enter Helm’s Deep – spotted their fatigue and weaker spots. And when that happened, they moved in for the kill.

Perhaps it started with Legolas tripping. The Elf never tripped, but here he did. He fell over the body of another Elf, one that lay with eyes open and face forward on the ground, blood seeping from his lips. Legolas tripped forward, regained his posture and fought on. But that tripping was enough for one Orc to see his chance, and it set a chain of reactions that would change the course of the night forever.

It was a strike to Legolas’ leg at first on the second that he tripped and lost his balance that rendered him forward and to the ground. The cut came unexpected, damaging the leg with pure force as the blade sliced into the back of his thigh.

The Elf grunted, falling forward amidst what seemed dozens of human and Elven bodies. He fell, leaning hard on both hands and knees, losing his bow. Dazed he remained seated before shaking the cobwebs from his head and restoring himself.

“Legolas!” Aragorn turned and found his friend in trouble, but he was too far at first to react. He had difficulty fighting off the Orcs himself, taking out two that endangered Gimli with their brutal forces. He watched from the corner of his eye as Legolas moved up, and stood once more, shooting arrow after arrow in the direction of those that taunted him.

The Elf remained standing by sheer force of will, but his body otherwise refused his commands, leaving him to helplessly watch the Orcs move in for the kill. They seemed to move in slow motion – one aiming a blow at his head, and another thrusting his own Elven blade toward his shoulder. The blade connected first: Piercing flesh, then muscle, it halted in bone, sending fresh tendrils of fire shooting down his arm and across his chest, But he did not long to dwell on it, as a club ploughed into the side of his head with enough force to turn him toward Aragorn.

Fresh pain screaming with fury through his skull. Legolas's legs finally gave way beneath him. His gaze locked on Aragorn as he fell. The Ranger's eyes, wide with fear, fixed on the elf's, pleading with him not to die.

Legolas smiled, reassuringly. Aragorn's situation was bad enough; he did not want the Ranger wasting thought on his friend's final moments. Frustration and helplessness surged through the Elf in waves as several Orcs advance on the human. His eyes never  
left his friends.

His eyes growing wider, Aragorn shook her head at the apology emanating from Legolas’ eyes. He did not want the prince to die believing he had ailed him, especially as Aragorn's own precarious situation matter so little to the ranger at that moment. He did not want to see what was about to happen, but he could not leave Legolas to suffer it alone, either. Forcing the terror from his expression, he smiled, compassionately, as the Orc that had clubbed Legolas twice already, raised his arm for another strike.

Aragorn managed to hold his calm expression, but could not help a flinch at the sickening sound of crunching bone as the blow smashed into the side of Legolas’ already battered skull.

His dimming consciousness focused completely on Aragorn, Legolas did not even notice the blow. It was only the Ranger's slight flinch that alerted him that some fresh hurt had been inflicted. He had no thought left to spare for it though, for they were consumed by the horror that lay before him. His eyes full of mourning and regret, the sight of an arrow piercing Aragorn's chest seared into his memory as his vision slowly turned from red to black….and oblivion.

Aragorn barely noticed the flare of pain as the arrow pierced him. Neither it nor the advancing Orcs were enough to distract him as he watched the light in his friend's eyes dim until they stared unseeing. The Ranger cried out in the anguish and forced himself to his feet as it became apparent the Orcs weren't finished punishing the prince of Mirkwood.

Struggling forward, Aragorn watched in horror as an Orc wrapped his fist around the arrow shaft buried in the Elf's back, while another Orc yanked Legolas' hands from beneath his body, stretching the Prince's arms out straight. Distracted by the movement of the first Orc as it screwed the arrow deeper into Legolas' back before mercilessly ripping it free, it took Aragorn a moment to realize the second Orc's intentions. Then, he cried out again, but this time with fury, not anguish.

He shoved heedlessly past the Orcs blocking his path. Caught by surprise, the beasts let him pass. Not that the Ranger would have noticed if they had tried to stop him. Oblivious to all beyond Legolas and stopping the Orc about to chop off his hands, Aragorn moved with the determination of the possessed. Even so, he knew he was not moving fast enough. The Orc’s blade was already rising.

And then it rose no more, for an axe ended the beast’s life before he could finish Legolas’. It was Gimli who held the axe, cutting deep into the Orc’s chest as he ended the ordeal that rendered Man and Elf together in despair.

The other Orcs grunted and grumbled as more Men and Elves came to aid the duo in trouble. Aragorn, not even aware of the fact that he too had an arrow inside of his chest, rushed forward and crawled on his knees, turning Legolas and holding the Elven Prince in his arms.

“Legolas, no –“ Aragorn recalled the terror of losing Haldir – holding him just like Legolas, only a few moments ago. He would not go through that again! Not with the friend whose loss of life would break his heart.

“Legolas, listen to me, mellon-nin. Do not give into the dark. You can stay with me and you know it. I will not let you go. You must not go!”

Frantically, the Ranger’s hands explored Legolas’ head, chest and back, finding the wounds and knowing that they were grievous. He could not find a heartbeat, nothing to prove Legolas still lived. But he refused to believe that they would mean the end of the Elf. They could not! The Elf was not meant to perish today, not meant to die like this. He had a greater destiny ahead of him.

Despite the arrow sticking in his own chest – unbeknownst that he too was on the brink of death, Aragorn lifted his Mirkwood friend into his arms and stood up, turning to the right where the wooden doors lead to the inner halls of Helm’s Deep. He could tell that it was nearly morning, that the dawn would break soon. And he remembered what Gandalf the White had said. On the fifth day, look to the East. He looked now, and he saw nothing. Mithrandir would come too late to help them.

“Make way! Make way!” someone shouted and the gates opened, allowing them in. Rohan Men shot the Orcs that came after Aragorn and tried to breach the inner halls. The Ranger pushed himself forward, not even noticing that everyone watched him as he moved to the Inner Halls. He did not see Gimli behind him either, as the Dwarf had left the battle scene and chose to be with his friends.

Carefully and gently, Aragorn placed Legolas on a bed next to a few Men who were on the brink of death. He did not look at them, nor at anyone else. Quickly he stripped the Elf off his tunic, holding his breath when he spotted the wounds. Still, Legolas had not said a word. He could have been taken away from this world already, so pale he looked.

“What happened?” Théoden King appeared beside Aragorn, staring in shock at Legolas who lay bleeding on the bed. Then the King’s eyes trailed off to the arrow sticking in Aragorn’s chest still.

Strange, Théoden thought. It was almost as if the Ranger did not even notice it. Yet the arrow must be embedded in his flesh, close to his heart. It was a wonder the Ranger stood at all. A wonder that he still lived.

Then again, Théoden King had stopped to wonder about the Ranger whose fate was linked so deeply with that of Middle-Earth. He had seen him do miracles already. He knew also that friends meant everything to the Ranger who lead the battles in Helm’s Deep so far and who had almost sacrificed himself earlier during the Warg-battle to aid Gimli.

Outside, there were gasps and shouts. A bright sunlight entered the windows. Aragorn looked barely up but he knew what it meant. Mithrandir had come. Gandalf the White had kept his promise. He would return with Éomer and save Helm’s Deep. Yet all of that did not seem to matter now.

“Athelas,” he said sharply, grasping the sleeve of a Healer who was too busy to aid him. “I need kingsfoil now.”

“There is none left,” the Healer said. “It is all gone.”

Aragorn pushed the Man away from him and looked on Legolas’ wounds, touching them with his bare and blood-soaked hands. His own blood dripped on Legolas’ tunic and he rubbed it away frantically.

Aragorn knew that he needed to remove the weapons still embedded in him and do it gently and carefully. “Gimli, get me hot water.”

“Laddie, do not do this.”

Aragorn did not understand at first what the Dwarf was saying until he looked aside and saw Gimli’s sad expression. “It is over, laddie. He is gone.”

“No.” Aragorn shook his head, refusing his shaking hands to let go of Legolas’ warm body. “Get me water now or I will do it myself. And a blade. A dagger of some sort. We need to get these things out. Come on, Gimli!”

The Dwarf sighed deeply, sharing a glance with Théoden who debated between helping the future King or going outside to meet Mithrandir. The King finally placed his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, forcing the Ranger to stop what he was doing.

“It is over,” Théoden King said too, looking down on Legolas’ unmoving body. “He is too far gone. He is dead. Aragorn, you must let go.”

“No.” Aragorn shook his head. “I refuse to believe that. I have the hands of the Healer. Do you not see? I am the heir to the throne of Gondor. Elrond has always said that I was a Healer. What good are these hands if they cannot heal my best friend? What good are they if –“

“You can heal, but you cannot bring back the dead,” Théoden spoke quietly. “And I fear that he has crossed into the realm of the spirits. You must see to yourself now, and survive this ordeal. The world needs you more than ever now.”

Aragorn stopped suddenly, staring at Legolas’ pale features and the blood all over his body. The Elf had not stirred, not spoken, not moved. Nothing. Nothing for the past fifteen or so minutes. It was hopeless.

And suddenly the rush that had kept the Ranger on his feet, evaded him too. He could feel himself sink through his legs, almost kneeling down at Legolas’ bedside. It was Gimli that grasped the back of his elbow and kept him upright. And Théoden was on his other side, holding him before he could fall.

“Easy laddie,” the Dwarf said. “Easy.”

After that, the Ranger was lifted carefully by two Men who placed him on a bed in the same room. And he could feel the adrenaline that had kept him alive for so long leave his body.

The Rohan Men and Gimli looked down on the Ranger’s body with the embedded arrow so close to the heart. And they realized suddenly that he too would die. They could not remove the arrow without killing him. The tip of it rested against his heart. Gimli had seen this before, right before Boromir died. Gondor Men were strong, but not powerful enough to live through such a grievous wound.

The Dwarf cried.

Aragorn closed his eyes, almost unaware of the fact that he was slipping away. It seemed impossible somehow, that this night would mean the end of them both. The end of a friendship that had started so many years ago.

It was not supposed to end this way.

The Ranger grasped for Legolas’ hand with the last of his might, holding his friend’s digits in his own. And with that, he turned his head to the ceiling of the Inner Halls and looked up and saw nothing anymore. And his eyes, half-open, dwelled into the light.

*

Moments later, when Gandalf the White entered the realms of Helm’s Deep, he found Man and Elf lost to the world. And Gimli the Dwarf mourned by their side, leaning heavily on the axe he had hoped would help them through this night of hell. The Dwarf had lost his friends, and he had lost all hope in a future. For what future was there now that the sole heir to the throne of Gondor no longer lived?

And Gandalf the White looked upon the two with saddened eyes and said, “This is not the way it was supposed to end.”

But even he could do nothing.

*

There was a voice inside Aragorn’s head speaking. One that was almost away from this world. Soft and gentle it was, and special, belonging to a special creature. He could speak to it and it would answer him. And when he opened his eyes, he saw shades turning into a fierce bright light. And when he spoke to the form that appeared before him, he would see it become the Lady of the Light.

Galadriel.

Aye, he had recognized that voice. So soft and sweet it was as it spoke inside his thoughts. She was the one who knew everything and who would give him the right answers.

“Where am I?” Aragorn asked, yet his mouth did not form the words. He spoke inside his mortal form but away from it. He knew that he was out of his body, his soul drifting the real beyond this Middle-Earth.

“You are in the realm between life or death as it comes for Men. That place where only those dwell who are seeking a solution to their problem,” she replied. Her friendly gaze was fixed upon him, holding him.

Aragorn looked around, standing before her and noticing the colours around them. “This is a beautiful place. A peaceful one. I like it. Why would I have a problem then to come here?”

“This was not meant to be,” she spoke with a smile. “Your death was not foreseen.”

“Is anyone’s?”

“Aye. Each and every one is all predestined. And you are not to die today, and to leave Middle-Earth into the hands of darkness. This is not your fate.”

“Then why was I shot? Why did I die?”

“You tried to help your friend. One little misstep caused Legolas’ misfortune and yours. One misstep has changed the course of destiny for us all. And it must be undone.”

“What are you saying?” Aragorn asked quietly. “That I must return?”

“And fulfil your destiny.”

“And what if I do not wish to go back?”

“Why would you not embrace the life given back to you? Remember what I have said to you, Aragorn - when we met before, so briefly -, when we spoke of Arwen’s choices in this lifetime?”

“You said that I have my own choice to make. That I had to rise above the height of all my fathers since the days of Elendil or fall into darkness with all that is left of my kin.”  
  
“Yes,” Galadriel smiled. “And what is your choice now?”

“Legolas is dead,” Aragorn spoke bitterly. “Why should I proceed when all of my friends will suffer the same fate? If my death will give Arwen a chance of a life in Valinor with having to make the choice between immortality and love, then I shall give her that.”

Galadriel smiled, touching his face gently. It was an electric shock that surged through him as she reached for him, one that made him stand back. “Let her choose for herself. She will choose wisely. And Legolas is not dead. He waits for your touch of life. Your healing hands.”

“He was gone. It was over.”

“It will be if you do not return. You have the power over life and death for many, Aragorn. I have seen the fears in your thoughts when we saw each other in Lóthlorien. I know what it is that you are afraid of. But your decision to stay and to turn your back on this world will change the course of the War forever. You must return.”

Aragorn sighed, for he liked it here. And there were so many questions that needed answering. Was he really destined to live a long life? Was he going to go through the pain and losses of losing his friends and loved ones? Or would he truly be able to save Legolas and share a lifetime with Arwen? Had he given up too soon?

“Return me then,” he sighed and he knew at that time that this was his destiny.

Galadriel smiled, kissing his brow. “It is so.”

*

Gimli cried bitter tears staring at the bodies of his two friends. Never had he thought that the three hunters would split up this way. Last night – even with the siege ahead of them – he had believed in a win. Even with the odds against them, he had trusted in victory. And now it was over.

Helm’s Deep had overcome, but at what cost?

Gandalf the White placed his hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “I am sorry, my friend,” the Wizard spoke sadly. “I wish I could take away your pain. But this is the way of nature, I fear. All must die, sooner or later. I just wished it had not been today.”

“What about the Elf, Master Gandalf?” the Dwarf asked, his eyes still filled with tears. “He should not have died. Neither should any of them have. This was not their fate.” His voice became a growl of sadness, a quest for answers.

“And what about Aragorn?” the Dwarf continued angrily. “You have always said he was the future King. You said he would rise on the throne. What good is this War if there is no one to bind the world of Men? All of this has been for nothing. For nothing!”

“No, not for nothing,” Gandalf the White spoke quietly, stopping when a groan next to him startled them both. And when they turned their heads, they saw Aragorn, eyes open and filled with a new strength Gandalf had only seen in those who were reborn. The Ranger lay on his bed still and stared at the ceiling. And then he blinked his eyelids and sucked in the breath of life given to him once more.

To their astonishment, Aragorn rose up from his deathbed and swung his legs over the edge, still grasping Legolas’ hand and still with the arrow embedded in his chest.

“Do not move,” Gandalf said, stopping him before he could stand. “What has overcome you?”

Aragorn smiled, placing his hand on Gandalf’s shoulder. “I received a visit from Galadriel. She sends her regards.”

The Wizard understood at once and bowed in respect for the Man whose destiny would still be fulfilled. Aragorn would never know the anguish that Gandalf had felt when he found the Man dead. He would never know now the immense relief and joy that rushed through the Wizard.

Gandalf’s hand roamed towards the arrow embedded in the Man’s chest and he grasped the wood tight, looking at it in wonder.

“Hold still,” he said. “If I am correct, then this shall be but a mere scar.”

To the shock of all who watched, Gandalf pulled swiftly on the wood, suddenly holding the arrow in both hands. The Orc’s weapon was complete and almost new, as if it had never been in Aragorn’s chest. There was no blood upon it.

The Ranger’s hand touched his chest where it had been embedded and felt nothing but a slight sting. And when he touched his skin, he could see but a little scar where the arrow had pierced through skin and bone and heart.

“A miracle,” the people of Rohan whispered amongst each other, and Théoden King rushed forward to see it for his own eyes. He stood still, staring at his allies and knew that indeed a miracle had happened.

And Gimli threw himself against Aragorn and cried out, “You truly are one lucky Man, laddie. That I may live to see this!”

“Gimli,” Aragorn said, hugging the Dwarf with one arm. It was enough for the Dwarf and Man to nod at each other to acknowledge each other’s respect. Gimli let go, knowing that if one miracle could happen, another might as well follow.

A circle of people of Rohan formed around the deathbed of Legolas and watched how Aragorn, almost back to his normal strength and self, clutched his friend’s hands and rubbed them both, while speaking soothingly to him in a language they did not understand.

“You will live, Mellon-nin,” the Ranger spoke, oblivious to everyone but himself. “You must. Feel my strength. Feel the powers of healing going through you. You cannot ignore them. I will not let you drift away. You must stay. I need you. Gimli needs you. Stay. Stay with us.”

No reply came from Legolas. His face remained as pale as it had been. But Aragorn did not give up. He knew he could not.

Gently the Ranger removed the weapons embedded in the Elf’s body and placed his bare hands upon the wounds, closing his eyes as he forced his own will to leave his body and enter Legolas’. The link between Man and Elf had never been closer. The forces of good that did not want either of them to die stood by them.

“Listen to me, Legolas. Listen.”

The bystanders could see how Aragorn’s face turned a ghastly pale, as if he were once again on the brink of death. His hands trembled, his brow was beaded in cold sweat. Gimli moved forward, trying to stop him. But Gandalf kept the Dwarf back.

“He is killing himself,” Gimli said strongly. “Stop him. He must not go this far.”

“He will not kill himself. Look.”

To the Dwarf’s astonishment, a sigh escaped Legolas’ lips. And suddenly it seemed as if the whole room sighed with him. Aragorn opened his eyes, refusing to release his hands from the Elf’s chest as he continued to speak to him. “That is it, mellon-nin. Open your eyes and face the world. You must remain by my side. I need you.”

Legolas’ eyes had difficulty opening. But then they did. And as they did, a slight colour returned to his cheeks and one could see that the white lips that he had formed in death received a colour once more.

It was Mithrandir who stepped forward and slowly removed Aragorn’s hands from Legolas’ chest, smiling reassuringly at the Man with the Healing Hands. Aragorn looked from Legolas to Aragorn and then to his hands, his legs faltering him.

For the second time in less than twenty minutes he was lifted up and aided onto the bed, not protesting the aid of his friends. And as he lay down next to his friend and saw Legolas stare at him, Aragorn knew.

He knew that the night had made way for a bright morning. He knew that he had taken the first step now towards royalty. He knew that the dark and dreadful night would pass into a bright morning, one that would start the beginning of a new age.

“Mellon-nin,” Legolas said, grasping his human friend’s hand as the Healers worked on the wounds that had only recently aimed to destroy him. Wounds that were now not even deadly. Wounds healed by parts of Aragorn’s spirit still rendering in Legolas’ body.

“Mellon. Thank you.”

Aragorn smiled. And then he laughed. And then - he cried.

But it was a good cry.

 

The End


End file.
